


The One Where No One's Ready

by cablesscutie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Disaster Boys, Inspired by Friends (TV), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cablesscutie/pseuds/cablesscutie
Summary: Jack just wanted this to be a fun night for his friends.  This is why SMH can't have nice things.





	The One Where No One's Ready

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redheadgleek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadgleek/gifts).

> I had so much fun writing this piece for Fandom Trumps Hate! Many thanks to redheadgeek for participating in the event and having such fun ideas!

Jack let himself and Bitty into Haus 2.0 the night of the You Can Play benefit with a spring in his step, a neat crease in his dress pants, and excited to spend an important night with some of the most important people in his life. Bitty was armed with a garment bag and a pile of Tupperware, ready to

“...PARTY OUR FACES OFF!” as Shitty’s pre-party amp-up rant decreed. Shitty, in boxers and a NASA crop top, proceeded to use what appeared to be his fancy graduation fountain pen to shotgun a PBR. Ransom and Holster applauded, hooting and hollering as Shitty hopped off the coffee table. It was then that Jack checked his watch and pointed out,

“Guys, we’ve gotta go in forty-five minutes. You should get dressed.”

“Alright!” Bitty clapped his hands together and started to lay out the play. “We’ve got cookies for the ride down, and pie to leave here. I need somewhere to change, and possibly a hair dryer. My cowlick has been extra uncooperative today and I will _not_ be photographed looking like it’s school picture day.”

“Downstairs bathroom’s all you,” Ransom told him. “Ask Lards about the hair dryer.”

“I gotta go dig out my Passover clothes I guess,” Holster said, eyeing Jack’s suit. Shitty wandered off towards the bedrooms with him, presumably to get dressed as well. Jack exhaled as the group dispersed, taking a seat on the couch.

He was joined a moment later by Lardo, appearing at the bottom of the stairs in a purple velvet dress with thin straps and a slit running from above her knee to where the hem fell in the middle of her calf. Her undercut was freshly shorn, eyeliner done up a little more dramatically than usual, and her bright smile made Jack’s chest warm as he smiled back. It was exactly what he wanted from the night: his friends dressed up, feeling good and having fun.

“You look beautiful,” he told her, standing up to wrap her in a bear hug. She squeezed him tight around the waist, and said,

“Thanks. You said George was gonna be there so I brought my A-game.” Jack laughed, letting her go and taking his seat again, with Lardo tucking herself against his side.

“You cannot spend the whole night hitting on my boss.”

“It’ll be at least an even split with hitting the mini cheeseburgers and getting schwasty.”

“I’m going to regret this night, aren’t I?” Lardo nodded solemnly.

“Probably sooner than you think.”

* * *

As all of Lardo’s predictions did, it soon came to pass that Jack started to think this event maybe should’ve just been a date night.

Shitty returned to the living room, having tossed a blazer on over his NASA shirt and pulled on his trusty denim cutoffs. The blazer would have been a good start, had it clearly not been a thrift store find, possibly originating from the women’s department of JC Penny circa 1986. In fact, Jack was pretty sure his mother had at one point owned that very purple, shoulder-padded, chunky-belted monstrosity. Cautiously, Jack asked,

“Hey uh, I thought you were going to get dressed for the event?” Shitty spread his arms and did a little twirl to show off his ensemble.

“I am dressed.” Jack cut his eyes at Lardo.

“Well you know...it’s kind of a formal thing, so…”

“Yeah man, I got it,” he reassured Jack, except he brushed some imaginary lint off his blazer, as if that was the garment that would elevate the outfit and fix the whole thing. Jack was just trying to figure out how to nicely tell his best friend that he definitely had to change.

“Uh, Shits…”Jack started, but Bitty’s enraged scream from down the hall saved him. “I’m gonna go check that out.” He stood and quickly exited the room.

In the downstairs bathroom, Bitty was standing in front of the vanity, all dressed save the addition of his jacket. His shoes were on, laces tied in perfect bows, his blue bowtie straight, shirt pressed. Beside him was a hairdryer, a tin of pomade, and a hairbrush. But what had drawn his ire was his phone, which was open to Twitter. Of course. Jack sighed.

“Is everything okay with the internet?” Bitty looked up and he looked _pissed_.

“Listen to this: ‘Friends don’t let friends settle for cheap imitations, frenemies just make popcorn and wait. #tradedown’ Can you believe that?”

“Uhhh, what does that mean?”

“It means bless Kent Parson’s sweet little heart, he has no idea who he’s dealing with.” Jack’s brow furrows.

“Why are you mad about that? It’s just trade talk.”

“_No_, it is not just trade talk. He didn’t tag anyone. This is subtweeting, and I just _know_ he’s talking about me. I mean he’s gonna be there tonight, so of _course_ he’s trying to mess with me.” Bitty put his phone down next to the sink and turned back to the mirror. He made a little shriek in the back of his throat. “_And_ my cowlick _won’t. Stay. Down._” He picked up the brush again and started swiping at it, trying to get the little tuft of hair to lie flat.

“You look great, Bits. The cowlick doesn’t matter.” Jack reached out to touch the small of his back, flattening his palm against him. Bitty relaxed fractionally, and looked back to smile at Jack warmly.

“Thanks, sweetheart. But it does kinda matter.” He turned back to focus on the mirror. The cowlick stayed. Bitty picked up his phone and tapped out a message. “Now that that’s done I’m gonna try to get to the bottom of this Kent nonsense.”

“Bits, don’t worry. I really don’t think he was talking about you.”

“Tater knows all the gossip, he’ll tell me.”

“_I’m_ telling you,” Jack insisted. Bitty glanced up with his _Jack doesn’t understand the internet_ face and said,

“Thank you, honey.” His phone pinged, and he looked back to the screen. His face screwed up again, cheeks going red. His cowlick popped back up. “I _knew it_.”

Jack gave up on dragging Bitty away and went back to the living room to deal with Shitty, figuring that if nothing else, at least Bits had real pants on. When he got there, Lardo was alone on the couch, watching Cutthroat Kitchen.

“I sent Shits upstairs to change,” she told Jack, who breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bless you.”

“Got your back.”

“I’m gonna get some water, you need anything?”

“Grab me a beer?”

“You got it.” Jack turned to leave, but Lardo said,

“A new bottle, not the glass in the fridge.” Jack blinked.

“Uh, okay?”

“It’s not actually beer. Ransom and Holster have both already drank it by accident and Holster’s the one that freakin left it there.” Jack was a little afraid to ask, but he kind of had to know,

“What _is_ it?”

“Schmaltz. Holtzy’s gonna make matzo ball soup.” Jack’s stomach turned.

“And they _drank_ it? _Cold_?” Lardo nodded solemnly.

“It was fucking hilarious. Gross, but hilarious.”

“One actual beer coming up then,” Jack said.

As he rummaged in the fridge, he caught sight of the glass of schmaltz and shuddered at the thought of anyone drinking it, all greasy with little bits of chicken still floating around in the fat. His arteries ached in sympathy.

* * *

Just as Jack was handing Lardo her beer, there was indistinct shouting from upstairs. The shouting was only indistinct in that the words were unintelligible. It was abundantly clear that the ones yelling were Ransom and Holster. They thundered down the stairs, and Jack’s first thought as they appeared was dismay that both of them were wearing the same clothes they’d worn upstairs. Ransom at least had a pair of black pants clutched in hand, which seemed somewhat promising. Until Ransom had run around to the opposite end of the couch, clearly using it as a barrier, and Holster demanded,

“Give me my pants back, Rans, what the fuck.”

“No.” Ransom crossed his arms, one hand still clutching the pants. Holster reached out beseechingly and made a grabby motion.

“Come on.” Ransom shook his head.

“No.” Holster turned up the puppy dog eyes.

“Pleeeease?” Jack’s head whipped back and forth as they volleyed. Lardo turned on closed captioning and gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Fuck no. I am not letting you wear these ugly-ass pants in public. It’s one thing to dress like a disaster at home, but this is a _nice_ event.”

“They’re my nice pants!”

“Ironing a crease into sweatpants doesn’t make them dress pants, _Adam_!” Ransom accused. Holster gave him a wounded look, hand pressed to his heart.

“Don’t hate on the swacks, bro.” Ransom’s face did the Finals Twitch.

“_SWACKS?!?!?!_” Jack jumped in his seat. Lardo shut off the TV and looked between Ransom and Holster with an expression of maniacal glee.

“_Swacks?!_” she crowed. “Like sweatpant-slacks? That’s _terrible_ and I _love it_. Let me see.” She held out her hand for the offending garment.

“_Hey!_” Holster protested. Ransom ignored him and handed over the pants. “Lards, bro, give me the pants - quick!” Holster made as though to grab them. Lardo lurched away, the fabric fluttering as she stood up on the couch. Jack glanced nervously up at her, worried she was going to fall.

“Uh, Lards,” he started.

“Holster, you _cannot_ wear these,” Lardo laughed, turning the pants over in her hands, feeling that they were in fact sweatpants fabric cut to resemble trousers.

“I graduated in those pants; I will party in those pants; I will_ die_ in those pants,” Holster declared proudly. Then he dove for the pants. Lardo tried to pull away again, but Holster caught one of the ankles. Ransom lunged forward to grab onto Lardo before Holster could pull her and the pants over to his side.

For a brief moment, Jack observed the dramatic tableau of Lardo, bare feet planted in the couch cushion, and Ransom standing behind the couch with his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, in a tug-of-war with Holster straining against their combined strength. Jack was the first to hear it: the ominous creaking of strained seams.

“Guys,” he tried to get their attention. They didn’t hear him over the yelling still going back and forth. “Guys!” he said more forcefully. And just as he was reaching to grab the pants out of the middle of the fray and end that shit old-Jack-style, the swacks gave up the ghost. They ripped right down the crotch, and with a final alarmed yell, all three went sprawling backwards. There was a moment of stunned silence.

Holster, naturally, was the first to recover the power of speech. He sat up and said,

“You assholes killed my swacks!”

“More like euthanized,” Ransom shot back. Lardo got to her feet, a look of cold fury on her face as she gestured to the now _much_ longer slit in her dress, which had torn clear up to the hip.

“_You_ assholes killed my _dress_!” The boys fell silent. Jack observed the tear, which was jagged and pretty ugly, and went so high as to expose the side of her underwear. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch.

“We’re never going to get out of here,” he groaned. Lardo reached over and patted him on the head.

“I’m gonna throw this shit on my dress form and see if I can Project Runway something in the next…” Jack opened one eye to check his watch.

“Twenty two minutes.”

“Twenty two minutes. And you two,” she pointed at Ransom and Holster. “Are going to march your asses upstairs, put on some _actually decent_ clothes, and get back down here ready to go and be_ mature adults_.” Ransom and Holster were still glaring at each other as they left the room, but Lardo was right behind them so they didn’t start up their fight again.

* * *

There was a headache nudging at Jack’s temples when he heard footsteps approach again. He dreaded finding out who it was, until the person came close enough that he could smell Bitty’s special occasion cologne and a smile broke out instead. He reached for his boyfriend, letting his arm flop over his head, seeking out his hand. Bitty’s fingers grabbed onto his, and he leaned over Jack for an upside down kiss. As Bitty pulled away, Jack opened his eyes to his boyfriend’s beautiful smiling face. It was going to be okay. Even if their friends couldn’t get their act together and Jack and Bitty had to go sit with George and Nadine and a bunch of empty chairs, it would be alright because they were a team.

Bitty came around to the front of the couch and sat down on Jack’s lap and Jack curled around him, taking comfort in that familiar warmth.

“We need new friends,” Jack mumbled against Bitty’s shoulder.

“Oh sweetheart,” he soothed, rubbing at the back of Jack’s head, “This is just being friends with hockey players. Y’all are disasters.” Jack groaned. He stayed where he was, trying to block out everything besides the two of them, letting time go liquid like it always did when they were alone.

This peace was eventually disrupted by a gasp from Bitty. Jack startled, blinking the drowsiness from his eyes just in time to make out Shitty coming back downstairs in a baby blue tuxedo. It was clear that this was another thrift store adventure, the trousers hemmed just a couple inches too high, revealing Shitty’s Ruth Bader Ginsburg socks. His dress shoes looked nice, but nobody was ever going to get that far given the ruffled shirt and boxy jacket. Jack’s jaw twitched. Shouting broke out upstairs. Bitty’s cowlick popped up again. Ransom and Holster stumbled down the stairs and into the living room, grappling. Bitty sprinted out of the room to do battle with his hair one more time. Shitty twirled.

“Oh so now I’m TOO fashionable?!” Holster was yelling, struggling as Ransom tried to wrestle a salmon blazer off of him. Shitty started shouting in support of a person’s right to dress as they feel expresses them best. The blazeer was almost but not quite the same shade as the pants Holster wore. Ransom was dressed properly, in grey pants and a white shirt with blue flowers on it. The stairs creaked again as they struggled, and Jack braced himself for the sight of Laro in some avante-garde MET Gala getup. But Lardo - that fuckin beaut and the rock of Samwell Men’s Hockey and also Jack’s life - Lardo had cut away the damaged fabric and replaced it with a slim triangle of black satin stretching from hip to hem, the slit redone to its original dimension. Her little bag hung from her shoulder, and there was a coat - A coat! For _leaving_! - over her arm. And it was this, in the end that made Jack decide enough was enough.

He stood up from the couch, took a deep breath, and put two fingers in his mouth. An ear-splitting whistle cut through the house, and everyone fell silent, eyes turning to Jack. Bitty reappeared, cowlick still bobbing atop his head. Jack crossed his arms and barked,

“Oluransi,” he pointed at Holster. “Fix him. Birkholtz: let him.” Ransom turned immediately to Holster and said,

“Switch blazers. Right now.” Holster mutely shrugged off the salmon jacket and handed it over. Ransom pointed upstairs. “Jacket on my desk chair. Put it on. Don’t even _think_ about changing anything else. You’re gonna die in salmon pants now.” Holster left, shamefaced. Ransom flashed Jack a thumbs-up. Jack nodded his thanks.

“Lardo.”

“Cap’n” She shot him a sardonic smile.

“Go make sure Shitty’s car actually starts.” She gave a lazy two-finger salute and hopped down the last couple stairs, disappearing outside. “Bittle.” Bitty went a little wide-eyed at having Jack’s captain voice addressing him again. Jack’s face softened momentarily. “You look great. Leave your hair alone. Ignore Kent. Have fun.” Bitty smiled back. “Shits. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“This formal enough for ya?” Shitty asked. Blood roared in Jack’s ears.

“You can’t. Wear that. Shits, you look _ridiculous_. We’re going as guests of the Falcs, we need to be presentable. You need. To wear. A fucking. _ Suit_. A _normal_ one.” Jack gritted out. Shitty looked him dead in the eye, expression blank, and said,

“Fine.” and started undoing his bowtie. He dropped it to the floor and then shrugged his jacket off on top of it. He started in on the shirt buttons next, stripping right there in the hallway, shedding vintage prom-wear until he was just full-ass nude. “I need a suit? Fine. I’ll wear my birthday suit.”

“Shits, I swear to god.”

“Garden Party of Eden, brah.” Jack snapped. He exited his body, and was probably just going to astral project himself to the event. Until he heard himself say,

“If you just go put on your freakin graduation suit...I’ll drink the schmaltz.” The front door shut behind Lardo, loud and ominous. Holster stopped midway downstairs and gasped. Shitty contemplated the offer.

Finally, he said, “I accept your offering.”

By silent consensus, the group all migrated to the kitchen. It felt oddly like a funeral procession. Jack has won the Stanley Cup, come out on national television, given hundreds of interviews. This made his palms sweat more than any of those. Holster reached into the fridge for the glass of schmaltz. He passed it to Shitty, who then passed it to Jack. Jack regarded it dubiously, then decided maybe it was best if he didn’t look at it too closely and closed his eyes.

Jack paused with the glass barely tipped against his lips and looked back at Shitty. “You’re really going to make me do it?” Shitty nodded decisively. Ransom, Holster and Bitty looked at him with dismay and sympathy. Lardo looked disbelieving. Jack grimaced, but raised the glass in Shitty’s direction. “L’chayim.”

* * *

When he slammed the glass back down on the counter, gasping and trying not to dry heave into the sink, Holster appeared at his side with a bottle of Listerine. Jack gratefully took as swig and swished it around his mouth, gargling and then spitting as though he could perform an exorcism by mouthwash. By the time he had finished repeating the process enough times that he started to feel slightly less gross, Shitty was descending the stairs in the promised graduation suit. He went to Jack and clapped him on the shoulder.

“That was pretty fucking gross, brah.”

“Possibly the grossest thing I’ve ever done, Shits.”

“It feels right though.”

“Does it?” Jack asked, a little hysterically. Shitty nodded solemnly, and gave him another pat on the back, before pulling away and heading towards the front door at long last.

“I’m still going commando though.”


End file.
